Avery pushed his hat over his eyes and scratched the back of his head.
“Suthin’ like thet. Yes, I reckon it says, ‘Better stay,’ and she says better stay, howcome I don’t jest know—”
“Who is she, Pop?”
“Your ma, Swickey. She talks to me like you hear’n’ the river talkin’ sometimes.”
“She ain’t never talkin’ to me—reckon I be too leetle, ain’t I, Pop?”
“Ya-a-s. But when you git growed up, mebby she’ll talk to ye, Swickey. And if she do, you mind what she’s a-tellin’ you, won’t you, leetle gal?”
“Yes, Pop.” And she looked up at her father appealingly. “But ain’t I never goin’ to see her in my new dress, mebby?” And she smoothed the gingham over her knees with a true feminine hand and a childish consciousness of having on her “good clothes.”
“If God-A’mighty’s willin’, Swickey, we’ll both on us see her some day.”
“Who’s he, Pop? Is he bigger’n you be?”
“Ya-a-s,” he replied gently. “He’s bigger nor your Pop; but why was you askin’ thet?”